Living In An Empty Shell
by SeventeenRoses
Summary: A series of oneshots describing Ziva's inner battles during and after her time in Somalia.
1. Chapter 1

Ziva had had a lot of time to think.

She felt odd. Light, somehow. The pain had stopped lashing through her, taunting her limbs and trying to force the words out of her. She stayed silent though, only her shallow breathing betraying how much pain she was really in.

But she had been left alone for days. The pain had dulled, but the memory of the beatings still echoed through her body. It was pain she had never felt before, even through all her years in Mossad, she had never experienced such anguish. Because then, she had not had anything to lose. It was kill or be killed, and if you died, you died doing your duty. But since Ari's death, his death at her hand, Ziva had reached out, just slightly, in search of another family. Now, she could remember what it was like not to be alone.

Her father would tell her that she was being weak. That her time at NCIS had spoiled her. All these years, building you up into a fighter, lost, he would say. You know what? She would reply. I don't care.

Ziva replayed this argument in her head, over and over. She imagined all the things she would say to her father, had she the chance. She apologized to Gibbs, for making him choose. She would tell him he had taught her more than she could have ever hoped to learn in Israel. She would tell Tony it wasn't his fault. She would hug Abby, initiating it, for once.

As the door swung open, Ziva raised her head, turning her dead eyes onto her attackers. They circled her, smirking, pulling on the strands of her long hair.

"Tell us what you know about NCIS."

Ziva wasn't ready to die. But it seemed that she had no choice.

"Fuck you."


	2. Chapter 2

Ziva's first reaction to seeing Tony was relief. Pure, gratifying relief to finally feel hope.

Then the fear chased it away. And the guilt. And the remorse. Tony gazed at her, trying to read her slackened face, the emotions that ran behind those eyes. The corner of his mouth turned up, slightly.

"So, how was your summer?"

Was he really here? Was this not a figment of her imagination, playing games on her as always? But, no, he was. Dirty and sweaty. McGee, too, lying on the ground. Was he dead? Was she, finally dead? No, she couldn't be. This was not heaven, nor hell.

So now they were all to die. A surge of frustration coursed through her. They did not understand, these men were killers. They would put a bullet in their heads without a second glance, without a soupcon of remorse.

Out of all the people to rescue her, it was the people who she had been trying to protect.


	3. Chapter 3

The counsellor gazed at her. She did have pretty eyes, Ziva decided. Clear and blue. But she did have those man hands, currently wrapped around a pen. Ziva could hardly take her eyes away from them.

"Ziva?"

They were so large, the fingers so long. They seemed to stare right back at her.

"Ziva!"

Ziva ripped her eyes away. Janet was staring at her, her face filled with compassion and sympathy. She thought Ziva had been consumed with traumatic flashbacks from her time in Somalia, not entranced by the manliness of her hands.

"I am sorry, Janet, what was the question?"

Janet handed her over a piece of paper. Ziva glanced down at it and then back at Janet, hardly daring to believe her eyes. She stared, wondering if this was real.

"Just colour in the happy face you think is most suited to the emotions you are feeling at this time."

Janet held out a yellow pencil.

So, all the NCIS agents who were rattled by death, suicide, shootings, marriage breakups, interrogations, involved in cases and held under torture were supposed to be helped through their pain by...this?

_Think how much you want to stay here, Ziva_, she told herself, hesitantly taking the pencil from Janet. At least she isn't asking you about Somalia.

It was a matter of time, though, until someone did. It couldn't stay buried within her, slowly chewing away at her insides. But what to say when that time came, she didn't know.

Ziva coloured in the smiley face in the middle. There were five; you couldn't seem to go wrong. Most regular people were the regular type of happy; they couldn't reject her if she was just regular, right?

Janet took back the paper and started at it. Then she looked up, her eyes locking onto Ziva's. She reached out her freckled hand to cover Ziva's smooth olive one.

"Ziva, I'm going to teach you how to _trust_ again."

At the end of the hour, Ziva went straight in search of McGee. She had some serious advice for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Ziva had thought she understood hate. She thought she hated the people who shot her mother. Who planted the bomb that killed her sister. Hated the leaders of terrorist cells she was sent to destroy. Hated people who did bad things.

But now she knew, she had never experienced hate like this. True hatred was when someone you thought loved you, someone who was supposed to protect you, betrayed you. True hatred came hard, fast, and hot. Like love.

The bullpen was silent, still. It was late; everyone had left hours ago, Abby with that look her eyes after Ziva declined her invitation, the one that told Ziva it wasn't over. But Ziva hadn't moved. The computer hummed quietly, the blank email in front of her, words ready to be spoken.

Ziva didn't know how. She didn't know how to tell her father how much he had hurt her, both physically and mentally. . She didn't know how to ask someone if they had ever really loved her. If they valued her as a daughter, not a weapon. She didn't know how to take the words that burned inside her and throw them at her father, leaving a scar.

She wanted to hurt him, she knew that. He had raised her to want to hurt people, hadn't he? Perhaps he hadn't known then it would backfire on him.

None of the letters on Ziva's keyboard formed anything she wanted to say to him. But she had to. She wanted to prove to her father she wasn't just his little soldier anymore.

With steel in her eyes and ice in her heart, Ziva began to type.

***

_Reviews would be appreciated _

SeventeenRoses


	5. Chapter 5

Vance was looking pointedly at her. This was it, this was her decision. She was choosing now, between two paths. Loyalty to Mossad, or to NCIS. The latter held the life she wanted, and she wanted to get there. Mossad held nothing but empty promises.

Still, Ziva hesitated. Loyalty to Mossad had been beat into her, etched into her brain until it was a part of her. Like brushing her teeth or tying a shoelace; she had never known any different. Now, she was abandoning everything she had ever believed in knowledge that it had all been a lie. Especially her father. Ever since Ari's death, since he had said all those things about Deputy Director David, Ziva tried to ignore the growing evidence that her father had arranged for Tali's death, so the same pain, anger and desire for vengeance burned in her eyes as Ari's. He had sculpted them to his perfection, and they had let him.

But not anymore. Ziva wasn't the same woman that had gotten on that ship, the beginning of the end. She had changed in Somalia, yes, perhaps not for the better. Perhaps she wasn't as strong and as fearless as she had been, as cocky or as sympathetic, but she knew now, never to take anything for granted. Including this.

She thought of Tony's light-hearted teasing, provoking her, trying to bring the old Ziva back, McGee offering to drive her to and from work so she wouldn't have to catch the bus, Abby's pleas for a girls night, trying to set up an environment in which she would try and have a nice deep and meaningful conversation with her, the smallest, slightest brush of pity reflected in Gibbs' eyes.

She had tried to lie. She had tried to protect herself from this, but she knew it was inevitable. Even if Vance did, even if Cryer's body hadn't been found, she knew Gibbs wouldn't let it go. Her pain couldn't continue forever, surely she didn't deserve it.

Ziva was tired of never getting what she wanted. She had always done what her father expected of her, what her country expected of her, what Gibbs expected of her. And she was tired, so, so tired. She was tired of never trusting herself to know what she wanted, so she took it from others. But now, she knew. And although she knew it would be hard, she trusted Gibbs, and she finally trusted herself. There was a light, shining faintly at the end of the tunnel, and she knew she wanted to get there.

And she knew how.


End file.
